


The Visit

by Trekgloria



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Adultry, Consensual Sex, F/M, Sexual Fantasy, imagined sexual scenarios
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27433687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekgloria/pseuds/Trekgloria
Summary: An imagined visit of George to the Nampara and an encounter with Demelza that has both of them like two generals thinking of the past and potential.There is mention in here of a drug being used for migraines.  This drug did exist, I took it for over 40 years, and I know of what I wrote.The sex is imagined, but a bit graphic. And make no mistake it is entirely a fantasy of my own.All thoughts and feedback are truly appreciated.And this story may trouble some readers.
Relationships: SPOUSES - Relationship, extra marital, neighbors - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	The Visit

The Visit

Damn the horse, and he had spent a pretty guinea for this creature. Not owned three days, yes surely the farrier deliberately diddled a lame horse off on him. As soon as he returned home, he would set Tom Harry on him, order a thrashing, collect the money he paid, and see the knave run out of Cornwall. The thought of the man’s pockets emptied, periled to leave the area, and his beaten body left in a field offered a moment of requital. But only when the money, with compensation returned to his coffers could he find satisfaction for this knock.

And here just three miles from Trenwith the horse pulled up short and refused to move even with the whip liberally applied. Why did he torment himself and return there? Naught of Elizabeth remained in that house, he had made sure of that. Nothing of any value; just the ancient furniture covered in sheets, the family portraits, and all the drek of the Poldarks. Yet this was where his Elizabeth loved to be, not so large or busy or noisy she said. Here is where she bore Geoffrey Charles. And, he suspected, where she loved. Yes, aught of Elizabeth ligered at Trenwith to give him comfort. Still, certain days, the memories of her happy, smiling, and content at Trenwith, summoned him to journey to where she knew happiness. Ignoring all reason, he sought out the place Elizabeth favored in a vain hope of gleaning a moment more with her. Even the act of riding there, when she was still married to Francis, remembering taking some small gift, planning what he would say when she politely declined for some social constraint, yet smiling at his offering, thanking him for such kindness. And eventually when he persuaded her to accept the gift. How she looked at him, smiled and sometimes reached for his hand and squeezed it in appreciation. His greatest discomposure, that Elizabeth never seemed to want. How to ever hold sway over someone always willing to accept what fate brought confounded him.

Now, at this residence with no other choice, he tethered the horse, walked up the lane, and approached with trepidation. What greeting might be offered? Still, a request for a horse to return home with a generous offer to pay; though for spite that might be refused. Rapping on the open door repeatedly brought no response. No servants to answer, common practice dwelt here. However, what was worth stealing in this rotting manor? Yet surely someone, a servant must be present. Going through the open door, clearing his throat, calling out to announce his presence. Silence, no answer. Wandering into the first room, obviously the dining room. The furniture was heavy, ancient, from another era. A sideboard, large, gleaming dark wood, topped with mixed pieces of crockery, no evidence of China or crystal. Removing his gloves and dragging his fingers along the dark wood, warm, smooth from years of polish with beeswax, not a mote of dust to dull the shine. For a moment disappointment at how tidy and clean the room seemed slithered across his mind. The table could seat a mere eight but hardly commodious, no room for large parties. But then few gatherings for the gentry happened here. Most entertaining at this manor harbored peasants, those who worked in the mines or farms. And yet some of the highest rank dined at this table. But Elizabeth never sat here, this house held no soupçon of his beloved. Still the thought that she ever visited provided a moment of succor. What did she think as she surveyed the house which at one time was rumored to become her household to manage? Smiling, the dismay of such a future surely spawned aghast in the vision of her life with this man. But, what if Elizabeth instead succumbed to the man’s perfidy and chose to disappoint family and society and made this her residence. Accepting a life with that roue, whom all whispered her true love. No, that was not to be imagined. Yet, surely it was here Elizabeth sat and realized the man possessed nothing to tempt her into an ill conceived marriage. No, his Elizabeth did not linger amongst such meretriciousness. Still that she came here, for a moment he glanced hoping to see his beloved, even the shade of her passing along the corridor.

Crossing the hall to the room opposite, obviously where the family gathered. A smaller table covered with several maps, quills, an inkwell, and sheaves of paper. A cursory glance at a letter begun that morning addressed to Verity. Lifting it to read; salutations, a survey of the children and their health, a remark about the mine, all very pedestrian. Unfamiliar with the handwriting, he replaced it on the table. Turning, he noticed against the wall a small vitrine case. Opening the glass door he reached in and pulled out a tomahawk. Obviously brought back from his tenure in the war. Thinking how nearly this man came to dangling from a rope or transport across the world before shipping off to the war; today the thought brought a wan smile. Though at the time, as he heard the rumors, the thought kindled a feeling of dread for someone to die by the hangman or be banished from Cornwall. Though now, the thought inspired a sense of order and justification, one he actively sought to make happen. Youthful indiscretions, and himself just one year older, but never a chance for him to follow that path. He realized a life of protection and grooming kept him well safe from such actions. Examining the weapon, taken as spoils of war for killing a primitive. Surely it required little bravery to shoot a man wielding nothing more than a child’s toy, maybe even a woman's tool. For killing men armed with such an ineffective weapon he became a Captain? Then he saw a small figurine, surely this had been amongst the tat at Trenwith. Had someone stolen it? Perhaps Geoffrey Charles gifted it. He would question the boy and explain the foolishness of gifting family heirlooms, though possessing no value, ownership must be maintained. For a moment he considered taking it, but returned it to the shelf. Beside it was a scrimshaw box, obviously old from the style of scene painted on it, maybe one hundred years or more. On the shelf below a toiletry box. Again, aged, several stoppers missing. He recalled the one he purchased for Elizabeth for her trousseau. From the Orient, gilded with gold, he paid twice as much for that than the horse. Yet, on their visit to London, Elizabeth brought along her older one. Wondering if Francis gave it to her, he asked why. A serene, ‘this belonged to my grandmother and has such memories. And your gift, far too generous and I could not bear to break any of the beautiful pieces.’ Why did he ever doubt her?

The rest of the items, a beggarly collection of family heirlooms, little more than moldering bits and bobs acquired over the years. Nothing here compared to his acquisitions. Everything in his townhouse newly bought from the finest mercantile establishments or the former possessions of impoverished nobles. Several sets of bone china, vases from the Orient, Venetian glass, and the finest silver. And to evince ancient gentility, filling his house with statues and pictures from defunct and shattered nobility, impoverished by their lack of talent for good business practices. Yes, his townhouse, a palace compared to here. He possessed everything a gentleman required, but lacked the one thing he desired, Elizabeth.

Thinking of Trenwith, he remembered visiting there as a boy, after joining Francis and Ross at school, filled with items at the time that mocked his lack of upper-class landed ancestors. As he toured the house everything seemed to gleam and quietly proclaim gentility. His own parent's home, more like this house, filled with hand-me-downs from the generations before, trying to acquire a sense of reputable importance. The honored keepsakes purchased across the years, passed on to each succeeding family. Yet those tokens of ascension, now relegated to the storage barn, little more than what you found in the general store in Swayle. He must order the butler to donate, no, rather sell them; though of little value, a few guineas must never be wasted. But, his man must take them up to Bath, a growing middle class would gladly pay an inflated price to own such relics, and none would recognize their provenance.

Moving to the case full of books, ancient tomes, dark leather with gold lettering. Still not the finest supple kid, rather ordinary base cowhide. He pulled one out and opened it, the print clear, formidable even. Stories, ones he read at school, all told from the point of the upper-class, lives his ancestors only ever appeared in as servants. Blacksmiths, for generations his family spawned men who ruled iron and fire. Until finally his grandfather acquired several forges and money enough to move the family into a townhome paid for with rent from those. Those he sold immediately after his father died, terminating all connection to that life. Though still the gentry offered subtle and blatant reminders of his heritage at every opportunity. 

As he visited the mansions of his schoolmates, the desire to furnish his home as those of the local gentry became an imperative. With investments in mines, ore refining, and lending money at substantial interest rates, his fortune rose. By the time he was thirty the Warleggans ranked as one of the most successful and richest families in Cornwall. However, success in society was not measured in coin of the realm, but with an ancient lineage. He could buy many of the aristocratic families, in truth he held most of their debt, but without land owning ancestors, he would always be regarded as a parvenu bourgeois. 

These landed fools, vetted blood over wealth, yet, when in desperation and need to borrow, they came to him. And graciously, he accommodated their lack of cash, but only with appropriate usury promised and signed. Years of inbreeding to maintain the names and properties compounded idiocy. Yet, when in need of money to continue their bloated lifestyle, dressed in their out of style finest did they request a closeted meeting with him. Escorted into his office and announced with their titles, demanding respect, but desperate for his financial salvation, he smiled, offered them the cheapest Brandy, and listened to them beg. Of course he explained the challenge of lending money, how little value land now held, but always with concern and respect for their position. Once they received spending credit, they would host a ball or party, and manners required them to invite him to ensure his silence. But he was the soul circumspect discretion; let them fear an ill mentioned word of their plight, as if all in attendance were not also impoverished and most all their assets indebted to him. There had been a time when he held every thing this man owned on a piece of paper, and when the note came due, he sat and waited to send the man to debtors prison, throw the wife and children out on the fields. But, the theurgy that seemed to ever surround him, the man walked in and placed payment in full. Once again escaping his due.

Returning the book to the shelf, he perused the titles, wondering who in this house ever read them. Surely the owner lacked the inclination to read philosophy, history, or geography, and the wife and brats, hardly great minds. Yes, a library was wasted here. He thought of the last book he gave to Elizabeth, a beautifully bound prayer book of the softest kid. Her daily habits included an hour of reading the Bible. And the Reverend frequently visited her seeking money for the poor. Elizabeth, generous to all requests, opened her private purse. He tried to explain his donations to improve the church far exceeded what the country parish deserved and reminded all of his wealth and generosity. Her response; ‘you support the symbol of Christian charity, but she desired to fill empty bellies.’ It was only his trust of her belief in heaven and fear of hell that persuaded him of her incorruptibility.

An aroma drew him to the kitchen. A huge pot, the smell was delicious, but unfamiliar, bubbled on the stove. Sitting on the table, 2 large pies ready to bake. The whole area was clean and tidy, but full of bins of veggies and a sideboard loaded with a range of jars full of freshly prepared jam. For a moment, thoughts of Elizabeth planning the preserving, a job he assured her others were paid to do. But, she enjoyed determining how many jars of jams and ensured each variety was made from her grandmother’s recipes. Most she packed for donations to the poor, a waste of food he said. But, Elizabeth cited scripture and assured him the cost was minimal, all came from the estate and ensured a range of tasks for the kitchen staff to remain occupied. 

A small dish held what looked like what was contained in the jars. Smiling, he dipped his finger in and tasted. Sweet, bramble, one of Elizabeth’s favorites. The taste reminded him of the last summer Elizabeth ordered it made. No one now made jam; he must speak to the Housekeeper. 

Sounds from below woke her. How long had she slept, the medication for her sick headaches always produced a lethargy that demanded sleep. Though even after the deep slumber she felt somehow less than fully roused. Yet the tincture left her thirsty and her legs sore. The ache in her legs after, dull, and Dwight insisted she never take more than three drops, he was adamant about the dosage. Every time she requested more, he reminded her of the dosage and asked how often she took the ergot. Usually only the few days before her monthly. Still Dwight worried each time she asked for more. He was the first to know when she was with child, as she no longer requested the tincture.

Rising slowly, waiting for her legs to support her, she saw her dress on the chair, she only had her shift on. Going to the basin, she washed her face and hands. Looking in the mirror, she saw a pale face, green eyes, and messy hair. Thinking the children returned from their walk to the beach, she pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs. She heard a sound from the kitchen and went in. A well dressed man, his back to her, but clearly tasting the bowl of jam.

“Sir George, can I help you?” Any moment of fear at a strange man in her kitchen was quickly replaced at the sight of George licking jam from his fingers. 

Damn he thought, caught off guard; “Ah Demelza, yes.” Unable to apologize to the scullery maid raised up to mistress with an ill conceived marriage. “My horse is lame, yes, and your home, the only one where I might procure a beast to return to town. At a substantial fee of course for the use.” Suddenly he wondered what amount he might offer to offset being found by Demelza in her kitchen licking his fingers. 

“Sorry, you need to borrow a horse? Yes, of course you may. Mine is in the pasture, you are welcome to take her and return the mare at your convenience.” She stifled a giggle at the sudden appearance of George in her kitchen eating the bramble jam and offering to pay to use a horse. “May I offer you a drink and something to eat?” Do you prefer Port or Brandy? Ross always drinks Brandy. He recently procured some.” Suddenly realizing the Brandy came from a smuggling run several of the men from the mine made and used to pay for using his beach to land it. Smiling, knowing it was sold locally at a substantial price, probably even to George.

“No, just the use of the horse, I shall have my man return him today and I would offer five guineas.” Even as he said it, it seemed an exorbitant amount, for that he could purchase a silver watch.

“Nay George, you need not pay to use my mare.” Though she smiled, the gall rose in throat to think of all this man had done to her family. But he was here in her kitchen, licking his fingers and offering a fortune to borrow her horse for an afternoon. What would Ross say when she told him of George’s offer of five guineas for the use of a horse. Had the man suddenly developed a conscience? No, but the past could not be undone, no need to dwell on all those hurts.

Turning she took two glasses and poured a Brandy for George and a small glass of Port for herself. Good manners required her to serve him.

Taking the glass from her, George took a drink. Surprised at the quality of the Brandy, as good as any he purchased, obviously obtained through some form of smuggling. Still it was smooth and warmed his throat and belly. For a moment he paused and looked at the woman, though she had borne several children, she remained lithe as the first time he encountered her at Trenwith. Rumors that Ross had married his slattern raged through the villages and towns. A man of his rank might take any woman for service, especially from the lower class, but one did not marry a hussy. Many of rank laughed at the man, marrying his scullery maid, yet as each man met her, the laughter ceased and a smoldering desire for the wench ensued. Old Hugh openly complimented her, other men stopped and stared as she passed by. But for George, only one woman had ever stirred his desire, Elizabeth. None of the women high or low born could match her beauty, her gracefulness, nor her virtue. Yet today, standing in the kitchen with Demelza, his thoughts strayed. She was wearing little more than a morning gown and looked as if she had just risen for the day. Had Ross come home for his lunch and taken her to bed? The thought of joining with a woman, even one’s wife in the day shocked him. Such carnal activity needed to be kept in the dark. Even with the sight of Elizabeth rising in the morning, her body barely hidden under the silk gown she wore could not move him to take her in the light of day. But surely Ross had no such respect and often took his slut at all hours of the day. For a moment he imagined Ross leading this waif up to his room and rutting upon her, like an animal, all those years she served as his maid, barely more than a child before he wed her, surely in some attempt to thumb his nose at his society. 

In an uncontrolled moment, he desired to know what it would be like to take this woman, here on the table, sweep the pies to the floor, push her back against the wood, raise her shift and see her groin. He had never seen Elizabeth completely naked in the light of day, and even at night, all candles were extinguished, only the pale light of the moon provided a ghostly image of her body. But today, the desire to look at this woman's body, even her most private parts swam in his mind. What would it be like to reach for her breast, to rip the flimsy material and expose her completely? Was her skin as silky as Elizabeth’s? Was she passive, receptive to what debaucheries Ross thrust upon her? Or was she wild and untamed, joining equally, caressing Ross, kissing him, calling his name? Did she moan, did she beg like a whore, implore him to take a turn in her Bushy Park? What was it to violate this woman? Surely he could drop the glass, let it crash to the floor, she would step towards him to clear it, and he could grab her by the shoulders. Feel her squirm to resist, to have that power over this woman. Or would she smile, her lust overwhelming her sense of propriety, perhaps offering to undo his trousers. He could almost imagine the feel of her fingers unfastening each button and the thought stirred his cock. For so long he had mourned Elizabeth, and joining with a working woman was something he could not abide. A woman who sold her body to many, the thought was repugnant to him. Unlike Francis who lavished gifts on his harlot, defiling Elizabeth with each rutting, But he had never looked at another woman with desire, only Elizabeth stirred his mind, his body, his soul. 

Yes, though Elizabeth was the only woman who inflamed him, even married their relations were careful, slow, for he feared to offend her, that she might then refuse him, something he could not endure. And, always the thought of Francis taking her body, using her for his carnal pleasure before him, hovered. But today, Demelza reminded him of what it felt like when he released his seed into Elizabeth. Each time he experienced such carnal pleasure and delight until the guilt emerged. He obsessed, wondered did she enjoy his attentions, did she find pleasure with him, for little was said between them during their joining. And after, he often purchased a piece of jewelry or suggested she go shopping for new clothes, some sort of payment that she might not feel unappreciated even find satisfaction from his gifts, if not from his body.

The idea of taking Ross’ wife, here in his home, on the man’s very table, under his nose intensified. What would it be like to kiss this woman? Yes, she would open his fall front and see how hard he was. Would she compare him to Ross? As young men, wrestling, bathing in the sea, he had glimpsed Ross’ cock. Surprised at the size, large, he could barely look away. Himself much less endowed. But in the moment he could only think of spreading her legs, seeing her looking at him, waiting to see what he would do. Then forcing his cock inside her. Would she gasp, would she remain passive, or eagerly thrust with him? Call his name, beg for him to use her. Gulping the Brandy, he saw his hand hold the glass out, for a refill or to give it to her, he could not decide. 

But today, the Brandy inflamed his mind and his groin. Watching she turned from him and reached for the bottle to refill his glass, unaware he had downed the contents in a single gulp. An old fear pushed up, Agatha’s words about his son, the unaccountable resemblance to Ross. An agony that ate at him, drove him to punish Elizabeth with coldness, and keep him from her. Only when she swore upon the Bible that she had only given herself to her husbands had he been able to deny the fear. But today, once again, the torment that Ross had taken Elizabeth, rose like a spectral shade.

Staring at her as she poured it full again, he needed to take her, something that belonged to Ross, only to Ross, take her, possess her, empty his seed in her womb. Would she tell Ross what he had done? Or would the woman fear to tell her husband, keep it their secret? Then every time he saw her, a smile between them, their secret. Which would he prefer, the anger and loss Ross would feel or the secret that he could destroy her and Ross, spreading rumors to their society that he had taken the wife of the man he hated? Both appealed to him, but he would have to kill Ross if he ever discovered such an indiscretion, but as a secret he could return again and again and demand Demelza service him to protect her reputation. Perhaps he would arrange to visit Trenwith more often, send her a note the day before, requiring the woman to meet him there. In the ancient home of the Poldarks, where he had bedded the first woman Ross loved, Elizabeth who bore him two children. Something about the idea of taking Demelza, having her at his ready, dependent on his silence to protect her appealed to him.

Judas she thought, the man can drink. Never had she seen George down his spirits so quickly. And the way he was staring at her. Any other man and she might be afeard of his intentions. Just for a moment she ceased to see him as George, a man who had done everything he could to destroy Ross and even her brothers. Here, in her home, only the two of them, she saw him as a man, flesh and bone. None compared to Ross, however at one time she did think Captain McNeil handsome. And of course Hugh, but somehow he always remained distant, set apart from reality. As a dream that faded in clarity with waking, but refused to completely disperse and hovered at the edge of her mind. Demanding she recall, but slipping away like a ghost, just as the memory formed. She could never trust what she remembered of Hugh. But, today, she noticed George. Was he handsome? Thinking of him like that surprised her. And for a moment she again thought of Elizabeth, dead. Still she wondered what had Elizabeth seen in George? Did Elizabeth compare him to Francis and to Ross? How did George compare to those men as a lover? Yes, Elizabeth had known the passion of those men, but was there passion in George? He certainly seemed to have loved Elizabeth. But being married to Elizabeth, Ross’ first love, had not quenched George’s desire to torment, even try to destroy the man he hated. Was George aware of that night in May? Few knew, but there was always the talk, people did love to talk. And, there was a look about Valentine, not of Elizabeth, but too much of Ross for her liking. Surely others saw it and that was all it took for tongues to wag. While she doubted anyone would be foolish enough to share such tittle tattle with George, could he not see it.

Still, what did Elizabeth think of George? Did she truly love him or was George her only salvation? Yes, after that night in May, Elizabeth had little recourse but to go through with a marriage to George, the very thing Ross tried to prevent. And yet his actions that one night left her without any alternative. And nine months from that night, Elizabeth delivered a son. Still, it was five years from the birth of Valentine until Ursula, and then Elizabeth died. Was his passion only for money and not his wife? Trying to imagine George as a husband with carnal desires seemed beyond her ken.

And today, here, alone with George, refilling his glass for a third time, she noticed a look about him. A look too often seen; old Hugh Bodrugan, Captain McNeil, Elizabeth’s father even, yes plenty of men gave her this look. She knew how to keep them at arm's length, but something about George today gave her pause. Yet watching him, the Brandy gulped, she refilled the glass. Something about the way he stood, almost poised to pounce on her. Thinking, she motioned to the chair for George to sit. Sitting, should he move upon her, the table would be between them. 

Suddenly she realized she was wearing just her shift and dressing gown, hardly fitting attire to receive a man in her home in the middle of the day. Surely the sick headache left her out of sorts. Pulling her gown, she felt for the buttons. And yet, the wonder of George as a man, a lover refused to leave her mind. He, a man of Ross’ age, clean, well groomed, and usually composed. Yes, now that she was eyeing George, he always seemed contained in his body, as if he might succumb to a great beast and what would be unleashed would devour all.

But today, something in his eyes, the way he downed the Brandy like a man dying from thirst and fingered the glass made her wonder about him as a lover. Surely, she was still asleep and dreaming, except for the ache in her legs. If he came upon her, she was unsure if she could escape him. But, such imaginings were silly, George had only ever shown her disrespect, disdain, and insults. He would sooner spend the night with Margaret than play nug-a-nug with her. Surely it was just the Brandy making him look so lecherous. Yet, as he stared at her, she considered him as a lover.

Her experiences with joining were with Ross and Hugh. Ross, many times, always in desire, ever wanting his body upon her’s. Needing that connection, from a kiss to a caress to when he entered her and brought her to such satisfaction. With Hugh, it had been gentle, slow, as if he needed to explore every inch of her body. Completing the act seemed less to him than every moment that went before. He stroked her face, her neck, long sensual caresses, the tips of his fingers barely touching her skin. Languid and slow, she felt the warmth of his skin leaving invisible tracks on hers. When he reached her breasts, Hugh gazed, then buried his head between them and sighed. For a moment she thought he wept, but he raised his head, looked into her eyes, then kissed her. A long, soft kiss, slowly his tongue entered her mouth, and in that moment she forgot Ross. Here was a man who desired her, thought of no other and she accepted his devotion. She placed her hand on his cheek, and felt the damp skin. 

As he moved his mouth to her neck, she arched her back, a welling of desire flamed in her groin. What had begun as a kindness, a sacrifice of her promise to Ross, transmuted into a longing for this man. Not to hurt Ross, yes, the thought had been there, but like that night so many years ago at Sir Hugh’s she could not punish him. Rather, with Hugh the feeling being loved, desired by one man inflamed her, opened a door for another Demelza to step through and for a few minutes take pleasure in not being wife, not the second best, not the ordinary, rather the ideal, what Ross had held on for Elizabeth for all those years. Being the ideal was powerful sorcery. Was Cornwall not born of thaumaturgy, ancient gods and goddesses, giants, wizards, and great kings blessed by the spirits of the land. She needed that moment to secure herself as worthy of being loved, not the result of a life based on offering.

Her head swam thinking on that day. Suddenly she gulped her Port and refilled her glass and saw that George’s was also empty. Lifting the decanter she poured his glass full again. Would the two of them sit here all afternoon drinking Ross’ spirits in some strange limbo. George seemed in no hurry to leave and she had no idea why she didn’t suggest it. 

They stared across the table, she thought of Terebithia watching a lone bird, waiting for the perfect moment to spring and with a single snap end the life of the creature. Was that George’s plan, was the need for a horse a rouse for some nefarious scheme? Silly, how could he know she was alone? No, the sick headache, ergot, and surprise of finding George in her kitchen set her mind in an effluvium fantasy.

Suddenly George stood, gulping the Brandy, he placed the glass on the table, but it toppled to the stone floor and shattered. Demelza rose from the chair and looked at him, then kneeled to gather the broken glass. Looking at the top of her head, should she turn her lips would be inches from his groin. An act often imagined, yet not one he had experienced. Did the woman perform such for Ross? His breathing became ragged, he was sweating, was it the Brandy or the woman before him? One step was all he needed, his hand reached for her shoulder.

“Demelza.” She turned her head to look at George and saw his groin inches from her face. “Yes Ross, I am in the kitchen. We have a visitor.” Rising with the largest pieces of glass in her hand, she brushed by George and placed them on the sideboard. 

Ross entered the Kitchen and stared, George standing by the table and Demelza in her dressing gown, her hair dishelved. For a moment the sight caught him off guard. 

Demelza turned and smiled at Ross. “George would like to borrow my mare, his horse is lame.” As I wasn’t feeling well, we waited for someone to return and collect her from the pasture. Perhaps you could. George has waited very patiently but must be on his way.” Turning to George she smiled, selected a jar of jam, placed it in his hand and whispered: “Everything you imagined” 

The words, spoken quietly, as she placed the jar in his hand, sent a cold shiver down his spine. Was it a question or statement. What did she know, was she asking, what he had imagined?

“George, I’ll collect the mare and meet you at the end of the lane. You can saddle her there and leave your horse here. Return the mare at your convenience.” Glancing at Demelza in her dressing gown, what had transpired here today?

“Thank you madam for your time and hospitality. I will not trouble you again.”


End file.
